The Visitor

A small demon sat at the edge of the glass-topped desk, its tiny red legs dangling lazily. It wore a blank expression and its beady black eyes were rolling around in its tiny, horned head.

“What are you thinking about?” it said easily.

A middle age man, slouched in a decaying office chair, was staring at the small demon. A grubby hand quickly scratched at his five o’clock shadow.

“You’re not really here,” he said quickly.

“Of course I am,” replied the demon.

“No, no, no you’re not. I mean, demons don’t exist.” said the man, pointing an accusing finger.

“Well, that’s debatable. But the only reason I’m a demon is because you want me to be a demon,” said the demon, focusing on his legs.

“Get the fuck out!” the man shouted suddenly.

The small demon turned his head slowly towards the man and looked him directly in the eye.

“Now Michael, you know I can’t do that,” said the demon, with a small grin peeking on his face.

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